“Doubtful,” says Quentin. “Since they had that bomb threat on Joe’s house, there are probably BATF techs in town who can screen the courthouse overnight. And I know Joe Elder. He’ll take this as a personal insult. It would take an act of Congress to stop this trial now.”

“What do you think, Penn?” Dad asks.

“I’ve seen witnesses murdered before. It didn’t stop the trials.”

“Ever seen one murdered on the stand?” Rusty asks.

“I saw a defendant shot on the stand. Died instantly.”

“That’s different,” says Quentin. “You can’t have a trial without a defendant.”

“You should move for a mistrial,” Rusty advises.

“Yeah!” Quentin says with mock enthusiasm. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. It’s a good thing you showed up, Rust Bucket. Hmm . . .”

“Let’s assume the trial will go forward,” I say, signaling for Quentin to get off Rusty’s ass. “It’s over anyway, right?”

Dad and Quentin share a look that I can’t read but makes me nervous.

“Mom’s worried you’re still going to put Dad on the stand,” I say slowly, watching Quentin, who seems to be studying a print on the wall. “She’s crazy, right?”

With painful effort, Dad gets his elbows under him and sits up straight on the couch. Before he can speak, my phone pings. The text message is from John Kaiser.

Judge Elder wants to see all counsel in the conference room at the DA’s office in 30 minutes. I’ll be there. Your father should remain in your office under guard until the ATF guys have signed off on the jail being secure. I’m coming over to update you in 15. No sign of Snake, but we’ve got every LE officer in the city on the streets. What a nightmare.

“We have to meet the judge in Shad’s conference room in half an hour,” I tell them. “Kaiser is coming over here in fifteen minutes to update us.”

“Joe’s going to either postpone the trial or tell us to finish up tomorrow,” says Quentin. “I’ve got a thousand bucks that says the latter.”

Nobody takes him up on it.

“Back to Dad taking the stand,” I say. “Does any lawyer in this room not agree with my assessment that, at this point, that would be insane?”

Quentin doesn’t speak, or even meet my eye.

Rusty clears his throat and says, “In my humble opinion, after what the jury just witnessed—and after Junius Jelks and Mr. Patel gutted Lincoln Turner on the stand—I’d say giving Shad Johnson a shot at Tom would pretty much qualify as malpractice.”

“Quentin, you’re not saying anything,” I observe. “That worries me.”

At last the old lawyer looks over at me, and in his eyes I see a weariness I didn’t see in the courtroom. “You need to talk to your father, not me.”